


You Better Run Baby Run

by moushkas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Asphyxiation, Community: dc_dystopia, Crimes & Criminals, M/M, Murder, Photography, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moushkas/pseuds/moushkas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://dc-dystopia.livejournal.com/">dc_dystopia challenge</a> round two: In the time of race riots, Bob Dylan, and Cary Grant there was Castiel Novak, journalist of the Washington post and the mysterious man he captured on film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


**You Better Run Baby Run**  
moushkas // annachuu

 

**Prologue.  
Kent, Ohio  
1954**

The early-spring sun was surprisingly hot, suffocating the scattered homes of Kent, Ohio. It was too early for the pools to be opened, too early for the local ice cream man to be making his rounds. Instead the heat had to be sated by sitting in front of fans, drinking cold water and ignoring the heat as much as possible. 

Castiel Novak chose to stay cool by sitting in the shade of his father’s porch, reading the historical adventure novel his older brother had picked up from the book shop he worked at. Castiel’s father was lounging in a wicker chair and sweating through his white polo. He was reading the latest issue of the Washington Post. His worn sunday dress shoes were resting beside the matching wicker ottoman. A freshly rolled cigarette rested in between his lips, unlit as he promised not to smoke around Castiel. His bowler hat rested at an angle to block the sun from his eyes and cover his receding hair line.

Castiel idolized his father, a strong, street-wise man that owned a small shop in the center of town. His father could fix cars, win bar fights and quote shakespeare; Castiel wanted to be just like him. Which was why Castiel, a vibrant and strong 15 year old, was relaxing in a smaller wicker chair beside his father, reading a novel just like his father was reading the paper.

Castiel looked up adoringly at his father. Mr. Novak groaned, shifting in his seat and turning the page. His large newspaper was brightened by the sunlight, flashing a worn image in front of Castiel’s eyes. Castiel frowned, hands grabbing the edges of the newspaper.

His father grunted but moved his hands as Castiel directed, showing the back end of the newspaper to Castiel again, the light bringing out the deep black ink. 

“Castiel?” His father grunted. He gave his son a strange looking, watching the wide blue eyes cross as he focused on the newspaper.

Castiel was concentrating on a pixellated image of a woman in a strange dress. It was a blurry black and white image, the woman’s face mostly unfocused but it was clear that she was smiling. The backdrop of a thousand blossoms identified the area as Freedom Park in Washington D.C. The woman in the foreground was wearing a full length dress with long sleeves, hair tied up high. She was half way up a ladder with a long match, reaching into an old stone totem to light a candle.

He frowned at the picture, memorizing everything about the odd image. His father leaned around the edges of the newspaper to see what Castiel was seeing. He read the caption below the picture then hummed pleasantly, “That’s nice of them.”

“Them?” Castiel murmured, taking the top of the newspaper and pulling the photo closer to him, “Is she Japanese?”

“Yes, she’s lighting an old temple lantern. They had them everywhere when I was there. It’s a nice peace offering.” His father shrugged absently, “They apparently donated it to the park and the Canadian ambassador’s daughter is lighting it for the ceremony.”

Castiel nodded. He fingered the edges of the picture, longing to see the colors of the blooming cherry blossoms, the colors on the woman’s dress, the darkness of her hair and eyes. He wished to see and experience all that was in this picture and it struck him so suddenly that he could not prevent the smile blossoming across his face, “I think I want to be a journalist in D.C., Father.”

His dad grunted, “That’s good son, study hard.”

**January 1963  
Washington D.C.**

The busy streets of Washington D.C. were far more different than the quiet sidewalk in Kent, Ohio. When Castiel walked the streets of his hometown, people smiled at him, shook his hand and waived. He was a hero, a Columbia graduate in journalism with his first real job as a reporter for the Washington Post. But here, in the capital of the United States, he was just another man with a tan coat and matching fedora, waiving an old camera and a flip notepad. 

He was pushed over, shoved away and ignored but he couldn’t say that he hated it. He was never cursed at or throne out buildings. He never had to sneak into buildings after hours or interview people at all times of days, even going as far as to lie about his occupation for answers. And though he dreamed of being part of that scene, he could be satisfied with his soft social beats.

Like now, the formal wedding of some high end official’s daughter was ending. The newly wed couple would be bursting out of St. John’s Episcopal Church and Castiel would be at the bottom, flashing pictures with his trusty Kodak Duaflex IV. He stroked the worn camera lovingly, holding it close before he flipped open the tab for the view finder and peered inside, moving the camera around to find the best angle.

He longed for the mystery beat, the political beat, the jobs that meant something in the world. He wanted a name for himself, to go home and have people waive his front page stories and cheer for him. It was all a little nerd from Ohio could wish for.

The grand cathedral doors were thrown open to reveal a happy, toothy woman and her equally toothy, gangly husband holding hands and running down the stairs. Castiel flipped the shutter, capturing a candid shot. He rolled the film quickly then took another shortly as the bride turned to him with a stunned but beautiful face. Then the two posed, arm and arm as Castiel took his third shot. The woman kissed her new husband’s cheek before they rushed into the Black Bentley, dodging rice grains on their way. 

Castiel heaved a sigh, this was the closest he was going to get to political reporting, the wedding of an official’s daughters. The woman leaned out the window, waiving her bouquet of lilies, “See you at the reception!”

The reception was at the town hall past Pennsylvania Avenue and Castiel’s boss would be livid if Castiel missed the reception, but that didn’t mean Castiel wanted to take the community bus amongst a hundred other well dressed guests, fighting for a seat while trying to avoid breaking any bulbs. So Castiel walked the four mile stretch across 15th St to the town hall building, he’d be late but not so late as to miss the important things.

He walked around Pennsylvania Avenue, admiring the green lawn, the perfect fountain, the pristine White House. Castiel paused to admire it, lifting his camera and pushing it past the high green bars. It was a blind shot but Castiel snapped it anyway, hoping to catch the bright rays of the sun, the three swallows flying close to his position.

Castiel pulled back again before he could get caught by a security guard, and crossed to get onto the other side of 15th Street. He headed North, passing congress and its multitude of steps. There was a group of protestors, throwing flyers and shouting phrases at the passing crowd.

There was a young man standing on the highest step with a horn crying about the injustice in Alabama. A red head approached Castiel carrying a pamphlet. She smiled brightly at him, her wide blue eyes innocent and flirtatious, “Hello, sir.”

Castiel tilted his hat as was proper for introductions but he stiffened himself, coming off cold. The red head was hardly old enough to be hitting on Castiel, she could possibly be a freshman though her round face was hard to identify, “Good Day, Miss.”

She giggled, but suddenly sobered and gave Castiel a pamphlet, “Have you heard of the horrible way our races and sexes have been treating each other. Women and men can’t get the same education, blacks have poorer schools, jobs and living conditions just because of the color of our skin.” Castiel gulped audibly, taking the pamphlet with shaky hands. 

Growing up in a relatively conservative and non-integrated village, he was quiet about his opinions. Mostly because if he spoke about his views of integration and equalization, inevitably it would lead to why he was still a single, uninterested virgin and he wasn’t ready for conversations like that.

Castiel cleared his throat, “I’ve heard.”

Fortunately he didn’t have to explain because the woman was cooing over his camera. She gripped the metal edges loosely, her finger brushing against his white shirt. Castiel tried to pull himself away subtly, “Wow, this is a pretty camera. It looks old.”

Castiel frowned, “It is. Not everyone comes out of university with a lot of money.”

The red head smiled, “It’s fine, I like the classics anyways.”

“Anna!” The man who’d been announcing front page news from the top of the stairs marched down to meet them, “Anna, I hope you’re not bothering this man too much with Dr. King’s words.”

The man was younger than Castiel but not by much, perhaps a Junior in University. His black hair was cropped neatly, his clean blazer primped like all the legacy boys at Columbia. Castiel suddenly felt 18 and new, unsure of his position in the world when he was confronted with power.

Anna giggled, “I was just admiring this man’s camera. You’re a reporter right?”

Castiel nodded, “I work at the Washington Post.”

The young man’s eyes brightened, “The Washington Post? You write articles, correct? The Freedom Fighters need all the national press we can get.”

“Michael,” Anna sighed, stepping away from Castiel and pouting. She clearlyAnna realized that she was not going on any dates with Castiel.

“The Freedom Fighters,” The young man, Michael, grinned as he pointed to the pamphlet, “We are hear to spread the word of Dr. Martin Luther King, jr. He preaches love for all mankind no matter the race, equality in the job force and social force. Did you know that an economy thrives when every member of its people work at equal wages?”

Castiel allowed the young boy to preach. He’d read about the baptist minister from Birmingham who was trying to bring National realization to the segregation and dishonorable treatment of half its population. He knew the statistics, the stories about police riots and protests. He knew that the more press the better but for now, Castiel was trapped in a never ending beat of social parties and weddings. He wouldn’t be much for running a political story like this.

“Take a picture of us!” Michael grinned and began to gather the group. Numb and willing to do anything to pass by, Castiel raised his camera and watched through the viewfinder as the group gathered together. He waived his hand until the group was clumped together and smiling. He took the shot, the pamphlet and moved on to the town hall with brisk steps, head down. He heard Michael shout from behind him, “Thank you!”

  


 

“Uh oh!” Gabriel, an impish man in a suit a size too big grinned when Castiel entered the main floor of the Washington Post. Groups of men in dark suits were jumping between desks, the sounds of a thousand type writers echoed around the area. It was so loud that Gabriel, Castiel’s favorite co worker and ruler of the sports beat had to shout, “You’re back already. No lucky lady strike your fancy.”

Castiel smiled sheepishly, fiddling with the worn cloth strings of his camera, “No. The bride got very drunk and they decided to go on their honey moon early. I wanted to talk to Mr. Adler before I developed the film.

Gabriel smiled and patted his shoulder roughly, “Goody two shoes. He’s in his office.”

Castiel nodded, passing the long rows of desks to get to the Editor-in-Chief, Zachariah Adler’s office. He passed the storage room to find the solid form of Raphael. He was an unfriendly dark man who scowled through his continuous path between the storage closet and the printing rooms two floors below. Currently the man was stacking paper onto a cart. He grunted as each stake was lifted and dropped down onto the worn cart. He froze, dark eyes finding Castiel who’d frozen in his spot across a desk from the storage room.

Castiel wasn’t a man to judge or show wrath to anyone but he’d wished Raphael to be a little more friendly. The man scowled like it was Castiel’s fault he worked where he did. Castiel could only slink away, head down at his camera and feet rapidly moving the memorized path to Adler’s office. 

“Ah, Mr. Novak,” Mr. Adler, an aging man in a classic style dark suit grinned from behind his desk. Castiel shuffled into the office and sat in the large leather chair, “I see that Senator McCormick’s daughter’s wedding ended early.”

Castiel nodded, setting his beige fedora in his lap, “Yes, well, the new Mrs. Smith enjoyed too much wine.”

Zachariah laughed, head tilted back with his amusement, “Good, Castiel. I hope you took some wonderful pictures.” Castiel nodded, “Good, we’re running the story in the morning. Better type it up here. We’ll need those pictures by 4am, Castiel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This was a good series, Castiel.” Zachariah grinned, “Everyone loves Senator McCormick after you ran the entire pre-wedding series. He’s thanking me for getting him another term. I see a bonus in your future. Make this last one the best and I can guarantee it.”

A bonus would be nice, but Castiel wanted a promotion. He wanted the political beat, reporting on the important things in the world. Castiel sighed, “I was hoping maybe putting me in current events or I could interview the politicians about their social stance. The riots in Alabama are an important topic.”

Zachariah pulled a face, “Castiel you do report on the important issues. No one cares about the blacks and equal rights. They care about how much better famous people’s lives are. Politics are so boring but these socialites and their drama, that’s what people want to read. Understand?”

Castiel stood with a stiff nod, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Big things, Castiel.” Zachariah grinned and gestured for Castiel to leave. Castiel didn’t hesitate to escape, frustrated and on the verge of tears. He ran to his desk, by passing Gabriel’s deep frown and typing up the last of a six piece edition circling the Senator from Maryland’s daughter’s wedding. He imagined just getting through the day and washing away the anguish with brandy when he returned home. 

  


Castiel groaned, belly full from the spaghetti he’d eaten at the reception. It was from a local family restaurant, a cousin of the senator apparently owned the place, and even though it was going to serve 200 guests, it tasted fantastic. He patted his belly as he walked the two flights upstairs to his cheap apartment in Anacostia.

He’d managed to successfully get out of the reception early in the afternoon, beating the 5 o’clock subway and trolly traffic he usually had to fight just to get home. He was in a good mood though he was tired and he vowed to go home, relax with a book with a few hours then develop the film in preparation for tomorrow.

He made it to his floor just as a tall, handsome man reached the flight of stairs to go down. The man was young, a senior in University but he was built like the 30 year old baseball players Castiel sometimes caught as he passed the television store. But beyond the wide expanse of chest, the deep voice and endless height, the boy’s face was young, innocent and full of wonder that could only come from a young man recently out in the world.

This was Castiel’s only neighbor aside from the man’s older brother. He was Samuel Winchester, senior at American University in pre-law and applied sciences. He eagerly praised Castiel’s book collection and photographic talent but overall, the boy just idolized Castiel.

“Mr. Novak!” He grinned, “You’re home early. I was just about to run out and get some dinner for my brother and I.”

Castiel had rarely met Dean. He was the bulky man that hid away in their shared apartment, sleeping all day and doing only God knew at night. Castiel had seen the blonde headed, green eyes man that was built like a sports player twice when he was getting mail and Castiel was returning late from work. They never spoke, never paid attention to each other, but Castiel could admit to having snuck glances at the man’s behind as he retreated back to his apartment. And every so often, Castiel would feel the chill of being watched, and imagine Dean was behind him in some hidden location, watching Castiel’s ass too.

“Oh,” Castiel smiled politely if only because he knew Sam Winchester was straight, “What will it be?”

“I’m making this new thing called Tacos. Supposedly its spicy ground meat from Mexico. Jessica went to Texas for spring break and said they were good.” Sam brushed hair out of his face, “Would you like to come over?”

Castiel paused, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sam.” 

“My brother likes you.” Sam muttered quickly, “He says you’re very smart and he’s always reading your articles in the paper. And Dean doesn’t read so you know he must admire you.”

Admire wasn’t a word Castiel would use but it was not Castiel’s place to out both himself and Sam’s brother. Instead Castiel allowed the idea of actually being attractive to someone inflate his ego. He smiled at Sam, “I mean I have a lot of photographs to develop tonight and I have to put together some notes for tomorrow’s edition. I’m just going to be at home tonight.”

Sam sighed defeatedly, “Alright. But if you need a night cap, you just have to knock.”

Castiel smiled and gripped Sam shoulder, “Thank you, Sam. Have a good night.”

“You too!” Sam scurried around Castiel and walked down the stairs. Castiel watched him go then turned towards his apartment. Standing outside, just beyond the doorway of his own apartment was the elder Winchester. He was dressed down in a pair of slacks and a white dress shirt, open to reveal the undershirt and muscled chest. His suspenders were half off his shoulders, held up by his crossed arms.

Castiel tried to hid his blush and offered Dean a gentle smile, “Hello.”

Castiel had the door opened and entered the apartment before Dean responded. He was about to shut the door when he heard a muttered, “Good Night” from across the hall.

Castiel didn’t respond, just shut the door lightly and exhaled all of the built up anxiety. He’d have to add in a round of personal time to his night routine now. He glanced down to his trousers, noticing the straining erection that demanded attention.


	2. Chapter 2

**February 1963  
Washington DC**

The morning was just peaking out beyond the clouds, the sky a miserable gray as it faded into day beyond the snow heavy clouds. It was hardly a reasonable hour for anyone to be awake, so with that thought, Castiel closed his apartment door as quietly as possible and tip-toed down the hallway to the stair case.

He had to get the pictures of the latest socialite gathering, a dinner and ball held in honor of the hurt soldiers for the war, to the office before the morning edition was released. He had tried to sneak in a few quotes about the stance on the war, what the president intends to do to get the troops out of Vietnam but he was sure Zachariah had removed them. Instead of waiting for the reprimanding, Castiel had shuffled home and developed the pictures.

His other plan, more than just getting a few pictures of the president shaking hands with an injured soldier and one of the senators and his family, was the old, slightly worn image of the Freedom Fighters from a month ago. He was hoping to catch Zachariah early enough with the story idea, focusing on the college and social aspect to start before inserting the stories coming out of Alabama.

Castiel was nervous and his mind was racing with all the words he’d prepared from the night before. He was concentrating on the feel of the cloth straps attached to his camera. He closed his eyes, exhaling to get rid of all the anxiety when suddenly a hand wrapped around his upper arm. The arm threw him against the wall and a solid body pinned him there.

Castiel inhaled sharply, catching a strange metallic smell mixed with the scent of night. He was met with the muscular chest covered in a black three piece suit and wool jacket. There was a single red rose in the lapel, so vibrantly red that it looked like fresh blood. Castiel felt the urge to touch, to caress both the broad chest and the single rose but he resisted the urge. Instead he shifted his hips to not be pressed against the other man’s and looked up to see the man crowding him into a corner.

He was met with the green eyes of Dean Winchester, dark with some unknown emotion that made Castiel shudder. He felt weak in the knees, breathless and alert, ready to lean in the few scant inches or run screaming back into his apartment. Although Castiel had caught the long looks from across the hall, had followed all the signals of a man who preferred the company of men, he still was afraid Dean was the type prone to judgement, and worst of all violence.

The man was bulky, fit with muscles and a grim looking face that made Castiel’s lungs collapse in fear and dick swell with lust. His strong, angular face was exactly the type Castiel enjoyed looking at but he was stoic, quiet and intense. Castiel preferred not to be alone with the man if he could avoid it. Today he just couldn’t.

There was the patter of nice shoes hitting the cement steps and Dean’s arms came up and around Castiel, blocking the man in completely. Dean pressed up against Castiel’s body and leaned his face forward, his fedora blocking all of Castiel from the outside. He breathed tightly against Castiel’s ear, muffling the sounds of men running up stairs.

“Stay quiet.” Dean murmured and Castiel obeyed, unsure if he should put himself in such a position that would land him in jail or a mental ward. However, he allowed himself to be encircled in Dean’s arms, smelling that metallic, wet scent and revealing in the feeling of being next to another body, a feeling he was sure he’d never experience in his sheltered life.

The men ran past, one stopping to look at the two of them, Castiel could see the polished shoes from beneath Dean’s arm, before moving on. Castiel heard their pounding feet disappear and after several agonizing seconds, he was released from Dean’s grasp. Dean pulled all the way back, taking all the warmth with him. Castiel shuttered, eyes shakily finding Dean on the other side of the hallway, “I...”

Dean turned to his door, “Sam needs a tutor for Latin, can he meet you after you’re finished with work.”

Castiel nodded frantically, trying to get his legs to move again. He watched Dean enter his apartment without looking back at Castiel. The pounding feet returned, coming down the stairs this time. Castiel was suddenly faced with two police officers, both exhaling rapidly from the exertion of running. The younger of the two stepped up to Castiel, “Have you seen a man carrying a bloody bat around?”

Castiel shook his head.

The man frowned, “Where is your...partner?”

Castiel gulped, “He went home. He wanted to ask me to tutor his brother after work.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie but he never corrected the officer regarding his relationship to Dean. Castiel couldn’t admit that being a partner to Dean sounded very good at the moment. The officer nodded and left, “Well, keep your eye out.”

Castiel nodded, “If I saw a man with a bloody bat, what should I say he has done?”

The officer stopped and turned. He glanced down at the camera, “Off the record?” Castiel nodded. The officer heaved a sigh, “He was publicly drunk, officer stopped him to sober up and he beat the officer with a bat.”

Castiel nodded, not an exciting enough story anyways. He watched the officers go, throwing one more look back to the Winchester apartment before heading to work.

“Castiel,” Zachariah sighed, throwing down a rough copy of Castiel’s article. Castiel saw a preliminary set up of his article along with the images set to print. Zachariah sighed, “I can’t put this on the front page, Castiel. People will start thinking that the Washington Post is taking sides.”

Castiel frowned, “Why is taking sides a bad thing? These time are changing.”

“Spare me the hippy folk singer quotes, Castiel,” Zachariah rubbed his temples, “You had the chance to run a cover story and now I have to push this back to the second page. You know I cut about half your article. Now all we have to put on the front page is the job reports. That won’t sell articles, Castiel.”

Castiel refrained from arguing. He slumped in his chair and glared up at the editor in Chief. Castiel had thought to sneak in everything for printing and then wait for Zachariah to show, unfortunately the man had spent the night at the office, rewording Castiel’s article. 

“We have many friends here in D.C., most of them are men who are elected in.” Zachariah side, “Our job is to make them look good so they’ll get re-elected. The more friends we have in the capital, the more money we make as an agency.”

Castiel frowned, “I thought our job is to promote the truth.”

Zachariah slammed down his hand, “Not at the cost of someone’s political career. You’ve bashed the Alabama House Representative for allowing the Senator to segregate the black community and deny them jobs. He’s threatening to cut his donation for the new press machine. Social opinions and rebellions isn’t our place, Castiel.”

“Then whose job is it?” Castiel growled.

“You’re out of line and I’ll put you on probation if you don’t stop.” Zachariah shouted, “I will not hang myself out to dry because you’ve gotten your protesting panties in a bunch.”

Castiel eased back in the chair, “Just let me do one article. One series of articles about the Freedom Fighters. I’ll just talk about the Washing D.C. division.” Castiel pulled out the well worn photograph of the group. He handed it over to the Chief, “They’re college students protesting in Alabama. Let me run articles on them protesting and going to college. That’s all I’ll talk about.”

Zachariah groaned, he rubbed his chin and thought long before easing forward to look at Castiel, “Here’s is the deal. If we sell more than the normal amount of sales for our wednesday morning edition, I’ll let you run the series.”

Castiel grinned, “Deal.”

Zachariah shook Castiel’s hand and shooed him off, keeping the picture of the group at his desk.

It was early in the morning again, three days later. This time, Castiel was just too excited to sleep. The journal still sold, in fact they sold twice as much than the normal amount and it was enough to convince Zachariah to let Castiel run the article. Now Castiel just had to find the group of protestors.

The red head had been the easiest to find. He passed her along the exact same street, 15th NW, and told her he wanted to do an article on the Freedom Fighters. She agreed readily, explaining that she would be free at any time and was willing to give personal addresses and school schedules for all the other members, even for a breakfast date.

Castiel was itching to report. He stayed up all night pressing his suit, sharpening his pencils and cleaning his trusty Kodak Duaflex IV camera. He lovingly swiped a cloth across the viewfinder and took a few test shots of Sam when the young student came over for tutoring. Castiel resisted the urge to ask for Dean as a model too. He swallowed the disappointment when Sam had stated that Dean would be at work all night as well.

Now, at the dawning hours of a cold Thursday, Castiel was wrapping a gray wool scarf around his neck, tucking the ends underneath his worn overcoat. He gathered the extra bulbs and rolls of film and tucked them into his camera bag along with his note pads and extra pencils. He wrapped the camera around his neck, tucking it closely to his chest like always. It was a solid comfort, like home, when the camera was around his neck. He donned his tan fedora with the black strip across the center and stepped out of his apartment.

He idly wondered if he’d run into Dean again, as the mysterious man was the only other one with a pattern of being awake at this time. Castiel shrugged off the feelings, whatever they were exactly, and walked the lonely path to the subway station.

By the time he had reached the station, the local coffee shop was open. He stepped in for his same medium sized black coffee and plain doughnut. The rest of the time was a blur, riding in the virtually empty car, fiddling with the medal framing of his camera. Looking back, he wasn’t even sure he could remember most of anything else about that day. 

At least, not until he saw the body.

He was walking the deserted streets of 15NW, just barely approaching the Capitol building when he saw a strange gathering of officers and bystanders, mostly office workers, crowded around the bottom flight of stairs. 

The group was small, hardly that man people were up and ready for work at 5 o’clock in the morning and therefore to the handful of cops were doing little for crowd control.The four cops milled around the inside of the circle of people, some stretching the inner ring by pushing the crowd backwards. Castiel stepped up the the circle, catching broken conversations about a body. Castiel broke through, meeting the stiff shoulder of an officer and peering over to see what the excitement had been about.

Sprawled out in a crooked cross stance, face down, was a woman’s body. Her long blond locks were spread in a halo above her head, crowding around her face. She wore a white dress, flashy and sexy, revealing her bare thighs and shoulders which was now covered in blood. The upper back of the woman was slashed to ribbons, long thick strokes from a large knife. The blood spread across her thin shoulders and all the way to her small hands.

There was a single stab wound in her lower hip, the blood pooling across the sidewalk from the other side. The knife had dug in deep and been rotated, pulled out and shoved back in. The skin was torn and bruised, the bone exposed in the cut. There were several more shallow cuts down her legs to complete her torture and death. Castiel felt like he was going to throw up but instead he raised his camera, prepared the flash and numbly took a picture of her body.

The officer turned to him, “No pictures, sir.”

“I’m a journalist for the Washington Post.” Castiel murmured.

The officer nodded, “Detective’s on his way.”

Castiel raised his camera again, winding the film for another picture, “Can I get one of you.”

The officer blushed, stiffened his stance and the crowd parted as Castiel backed up. He snapped a full range picture. Through the viewfinder, the circle of officers and the body were the foreground, the slowly growing crowd of bystanders as the back drop. Castiel knew he had a cheap camera, one that had been outdated for years but Castiel knew how to take a picture, and he knew that the shot was front page worthy.

That was what had gotten Castiel through the trauma of seeing a dead body.

It had been the first dead body Castiel had ever seen. The body was mangled and twisted in odd directions, the blood spattering across the pavement in odd swirls that could have been a pattern. He was frozen for a second, shocked by the exposed flesh and bone, the pool of blood, the grotesque imagery of a body that was murdered. He wanted to throw up, to empty the bile rising in his stomach and up through his throat. But instead he looked through the viewfinder, snapped a shaky shot of the body and allowed the thrill of his first real new report case to numb the shock away. 

It wasn't until hours later as he developed the film in the tiny washroom of his cheap apartment that he saw the man. A shadowy, bulky figure in a black overcoat and fedora. Castiel looked at the form from every possible angle, trying to identify the oddly familiar broad shoulders. The man hovered over the body, focused in a way that a predator circled its prey. He couldn't see a face but he knew it was sinister, evil, writhing in the joy of brutally murdering an innocent person.

Castiel shuddered, his bones chilling with the sudden, terrifying thought. This man had done the deed, had killed and brutalized this woman. Castiel had caught the murder on film.

**March 1963  
Washington DC**

A month without a lead and Castiel had done everything, even broke into the private records at the DC police station, no one had seemed to be able to identify the blonde. It wasn’t much of surprise though. When Castiel got a hold of the autopsy report from Gabriel’s friend in the station, Castiel learned that her face had been brutalized. She was beaten near death, then stabbed in the cut. The rest of the cuts along her legs were postmortem, the cuts along the shoulders were the first strike. 

It all boiled down to the fact that Castiel had no idea who the woman was or why she was killed. The police had ruled it a robber gone wrong and closed the case, Castiel, being a simple reporter, did the same. But the story had taken Castiel from social media, to the crime beat. His front page article sold a record high despite some critics complaining that the pictures were amateur at best.

It had temporarily brought up the subject of Castiel getting a new camera but he stopped the conversation before Zachariah could begin. Castiel explained he only knew how to take pictures on his camera and his reporting would suffer if he had to learn another camera.

The downside of Castiel’s new promotion was less and less time for a life away from work. In fact, his social life had become nothing more than the one picture, the mysterious, shadowed man in the background. Castiel had kept a copy and hung it on a clipboard on the wall next to his bathroom. Every morning he stood before the picture, brushing his teeth and imaging who this man was that loomed over a dead body.

Castiel imaged this killer, swelling with pride and energy as he looked at the chaos he created. The man probably enjoyed killing the woman, enjoyed the brutality. Castiel would stand in front of that picture an image the strength it would take to bash the woman’s face in, the rage he must of felt when he drove the knife through her hip. 

Thoughts like these were always interrupted by something else, Sam rapping on the door in hopes of starting their latin lessons or even his clock ringing, telling him it is time for work. Castiel would always forget such thoughts until the next morning, when he would stand in front of the picture and brush his teeth again.

This particular morning began late. Sam had stayed over longer than expected, an exam was coming up soon, and without a brother to feed, Sam had cooked dinner for Castiel. It wasn’t until the early morning hours that Castiel crawled into bed, Sam having retreated to his own apartment. 

Now Castiel had slept in and was unable to stand in front of the picture and contemplate the feelings of a murderer. He rushed out the door, trying to catch the 7:30 subway but instead had to wait for the 8am train. Castiel decided to spend the time cleaning his viewfinder, then the flash bulb holder, then testing each bulb in his bag just in case.

When he’d finally made it through the tedious trip, crowded in with a bunch of other men in suits with briefcases, he could only hope he wasn’t too late to be a bad impression. He was on thin ice with Zachariah for many reasons, the main one being that Anna never showed up for her interview. Castiel was at a dead end in the series. Zachariah had gotten over the blunder with the blonde just under a week ago but Castiel needed something, needed to find something sensational to get him back in Zachariah’s good grace.

These thoughts swirled in his mind until he came upon a familiar scene, a group of bystanders and a small number of officers milling around a body. Only this one was strung up against the metal bars of the white house gardens. Again Castiel was the first on the scene in terms of reporters and he pushed his way through the crowd to get a shot of the body.

The civilians pushed away from him, women were sobbing into men’s suits while a few young men were actually throwing up. Castiel frowned looking at the body through the lens. It was a stout woman this time, dark skinned and dressed in a powder blue maids uniform. Her face was pressed against the metal gates, her skull flat as if the killer had tried to force her head through. There was a detective on the other side of the fence with a doctor.

Her limbs were tied to each fence, creating an ‘x’ with her entire body. There were lacerations across each tendon on the back of her ankles, blood dripping down over her white shoes to the ground below. Castiel snapped a picture, catching the detective and the medical examiner staring at her face.

Castiel approached the detective from the side, “Sir, Castiel Novak for the Washington Post. Is it alright if I ask a few questions?”

The detective looked up at Castiel, brow creased in deep thought. He was an older man, rust colored beard and a scowl that meant he’d seen stuff like this before. He nodded, stepping away from the body and gesturing for Castiel to follow.

“Do you know who this woman is?” Castiel began, taking out the worn notepad he’d used the first time he’d found a murder. 

The older man looked down at the pad and then back up to Castiel, “If you’re going to quote me, you should get my name first.”

Castiel blushed, “S-sorry. You’re name Detective?”

The man side, hands finding their way into the pockets of his wool coat, “Bobby Singer. And no, we don’t have a name. Whatever personal items or identifiers were removed by the killer. It’s another Jane Doe case.”

“Do you think its related to the one last month?” Castiel jotted down quickly.

Detective Singer rubbed his beard, “Doubtful. Nothing connects the murders together.”

“But they’re both Jane Does killed on this street in a bloody way.” Castiel knew there had to be a connection and he wondered fleetingly if, when he returned home, there would be that same shadowy man leering in his photo’s background.

Detective Singer rolled his eyes, “Boy, you know how many murders I deal with that are like this. Until I see an actual connection, I’m ruling them as two separate murders.”

Castiel nodded, “What about leads? Any suspects?”

Detective Singer narrowed his wrinkled blue eyes. He leaned forward, eyes focused on the camera held tightly in Castiel’s hand, “You seem to be a good suspect, Mr. Novak. You were first on the scene for the first murder, you’re first on the scene for this one. You’ve grown in popularity since the first murder. Where were you last night, Mr. Novak?”

Castiel swallowed audibly, “I was at home.”

Detective Singer nodded, “Alone I bet.”

“Yes. But I have neighbors, they know I was home.”

Detective Singer nodded and prepared to step away from Castiel. He fixed his wide brimmed hat, the same brown color as his coat. He looked at the body and then back at Castiel, “Have you ever imaged yourself doing this, Mr. Novak. Have you ever thought about taking someone else’s life?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He clutched the camera close and watched as Detective Singer marched back to the body. From this angle, Castiel could see the anguish on the woman’s crushed face. Or, at least he could imagine her agony. With the sun barely rising beyond the body on the crowd of people, Detective Singer walking back into the sunlight, Castiel imagined this being the perfect image for the front cover.

He snapped the picture quickly, making sure to catch all of Detective Singer’s broad back in the foreground as he walked back to the body. Castiel lingered a little longer, as a police officer if there were witnesses, none, how she was found, a passing security guard saw her from inside the gates, what time this could have happened, he didn’t know. When he’d done all that he could for now, excluding writing down where the medical examiner was taking the body and that preliminary reason for death was a gun shot wound in the back, he walked the block and a half to work.

Zachariah was less angry when Castiel brought up another murder. He typed the up the article quickly, sending it to Zachariah for editing and then begrudgingly used the department’s dark room to develop the photographs. He didn’t like the department’s dark room, too many other people and their photos crowding the space. Castiel liked to stare at his work for hours, in all different lights to ensure it was the best he could get. 

Now, Castiel knew he wouldn’t have the same opportunity. He’d be rushed out of the dark room as fast as possible, without the proper inspection of his photos. But they needed to get the story out as fast as possible before anyone else had an article. As Zachariah would say, ‘we want other news papers to report on us.’

So Castiel used the dark room, bribed Raphael to not let anyone in for at least two hours and tried to relax as much as possible in the sanctity of the dark room. He cut the images and developed them efficiently, numbly, thoughts more on the Detective Singer’s words. He’d have to be more careful to have witnesses, slam more doors or tell Sam what was going on so that he wouldn’t be accused again.

When the photos were ready for drying, Castiel clipped them to the rope. He stared at them, memorizing every black,gray and white corner of each image. The first one, the body with Detective Singer in the background was good, front page worthy. He would pull that one for the story, not just for its sensationalism but everything about it was a perfect capture. And the best part, the mysterious man was not present. Then he focused on the the second image, Detective Singer walking back towards the body.

The lighting was fine but better when Castiel was actually looking at it. The image was also blurry, Detective Singer’s lower half unclear as he walked. 

What was clear was the shadowy man in the background. Same dark coat and hat, face down and covered by the fedora. The man’s hands were exposed now, reaching out to something, black gloves covering the large hands. Castiel felt his shaky breaths rattle in his chest, the anticipation of this man and his secrets. Castiel just had to find this man, find his face in the crowd the next time. He can expose him, crack the case and launch his career into pulitzer prize status.

He just had to start looking.


	3. Chapter 3

**April 1963  
Washington DC**

Another month without a lead but at least Castiel didn’t have to break into the public records office this time but there was still nothing to discover. In the meantime, finding even a flyer of the Freedom Fighters was impossible. He’d canvassed every college campus in hopes of finding any member of the fighters. He showed his worn group photo but many of the students said the image was too blurry to recognize anyone. And without a murder case to distract Zachariah, Castiel was back in hot water.

Castiel was in a bind again. With no story to sell and no lead on either the identities of the victims or the mysterious man, Castiel was forced to remain under Zachariah’s radar, explaining that he was researching.

Like today, he’d called the office and said he would be out all day, trying to find a lead on the now two cold murder cases through other news articles. He was easing on his couch, tie lose, shirt unbuttoned and craving something more than the old bread and milk in his refrigerator. But instead of going to get something, he loomed over the numerous articles, including his own, trying to find a clue. 

There was a solid knock on the door, startling Castiel to his feet. When he opened it, he found Dean crowding his door space, sour look on his face. Castiel nodded, “H-Hello, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean frowned stiffly, “Afternoon.”

Castiel tried not to shiver at the sound of Dean’s voice, rough from whatever he was doing before now. Castiel blushed when he found Dean’s bright green eyes follow the curve of Castiel’s neck all the way down to his exposed collar bone. Castiel shifted, “Is there something I can help you with?”

Dean’s whole expression changed, from neutral to stiff and cold. His eyes narrowed down at Castiel, “Sam is sick. He won’t be over for tutoring. He wanted me to tell you.”

Castiel nodded, “Okay, thank you.”

They stood there for a moment, Dean looming over Castiel in a way that both terrified and excited Castiel. He watched Dean’s muscles ripple from under Dean’s suit jacket. Finally Dean shifted, lowering his arms from their crossed position across his chest. Castiel caught sight of the hands, large, thick hands that could wrap around Castiel neck, his shoulders, his dick.

Castiel stiffened and focused his eyes on Dean. He bit his lip, watching Dean’s eyes follow his teeth, “You...uh...You’re busy right now?”

Dean frowned, “I was stepping out to get him soup. We don’t keep Campbell’s in the house.”

“Oh...” Castiel exhaled lowly, “You want some company.”

Dean frowned, leaning on the door frame, “Is that a good idea?”  
Castiel shrugged, “No one has to know.”

Dean laughed then, head thrown back. Castiel felt his penis jump in his pants at the sight of Dean’s long neck. When Dean calmed down enough, he leaned forward over Castiel, breathing into Castiel’s ear, “Are we talking about grocery shopping or something else?”

Castiel gulped, “I...I had thought.”

He thought Dean was gay, he thought Dean was interested, he thought that Castiel could take a chance of spending the day with an attractive man while possibly finding leads for his article. Now, Castiel was afraid he’d exposed his darkest secret to a man that could kill him in the hallway.

Dean grinned against Castiel’s cheek. He took Castiel’s ear between his teeth and bit down gently. Castiel almost collapsed, knees weak from the pleasure, “You were right. Now make yourself decent so we can go eat.”

Castiel grinned to himself and turned to the apartment to change. Dean followed, shutting the door behind him. He could hear Dean’s heavy footsteps trail behind him all the way to the bedroom. Dean stood in the door way, eyes laser focused on Castiel as he retreated to his bathroom. Castiel watched Dean in his mirror as he fixed his shirt and tie then moved to his closet for a clean jacket and pants.

“We’re not going to...” Castiel trailed off as he found a pair of black slacks and began to remove his day old trousers. Dean’s eyes weren’t on him, still focused on the bathroom beside Castiel. Dean’s eyes were dark but not lusty. They were terrifyingly serious and Castiel wondered what thoughts were going through Dean’s mind. He cleared his throat, grabbing Dean’s attention again, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean coughed, “I think you should change before I lose all my charm.”

Castiel smiled, pulling on the black pants and matching jacket quickly. He moved to Dean’s side, blushing deeply, “We could come back later, after you’ve treated me to dinner?”

“You’re very coy, Mr. Novak.” Dean grinned, “How could I resist?”

They kissed then, lips tentatively brushing against each other, tongues teasing against the edges of their lips. Then Dean’s hands were on Castiel’s hips and his mouth was trying to devour Castiel. He pressed his hips into Castiel, erection heavy and blatant between them. Castiel grabbed Dean’s lapels and pulled him in close. They began to grind, hips bumping into each other, friction igniting pleasure up Castiel’s spine.

Then Dean stopped, place a gentle kiss on the top of Castiel’s forehead and pulled away from him. He took Castiel’s hand gently, squeezing away any doubt then pulled the man to the doorway. He threw Castiel a warm smile before dropping his hand and escorting Castiel out of the apartment.

The dinner was slow, full of friendly smiles and laughter. Castiel learned that Dean was a mechanic, one that preferred to work as late as possible to avoid human contact. He spent days inside the apartment, either taking care of all the needs of sweet, college bound Sam, he was doing the paper work for the stagnant owner of the auto shop. He was intelligent, witty, and his large green eyes soaked up every inch of Castiel like he was in love.

Castiel was falling just a little along with him.

Dean walked Castiel all the way to his door, soup in a bag in hand. He kissed Castiel gently, tentatively and with a smirk across his lips. Castiel felt his whole body light with fire, leaning into Dean to deepen the kiss. Dean pulled away though and waived a finger for Castiel to wait. He laughed softly, “I have to give Sammy his soup.”

Castiel nodded dreamily, “Then...thank you, Dean. I had a good time.”

Dean frowned, “I’m just running the soup to Sammy. You go inside and leave the door unlocked.”

If Castiel were younger he’d be instantly hard. Instead, he was mostly hard and hot all over. He blushed and nodded, slipping out of his overcoat, suit jacket and tie. He coyly unbuttoned the top of his shirt, biting his lip and watching the way Dean’s eyes darkened.

He smiled, “Don’t be long.”

Dean practically ran across the hall, throwing the Winchester apartment door opened and storming inside. Castiel rushed in himself, throwing clothing aside in an attempt to get to the bed and appear sexy before Dean came back. He failed, falling over a wayward book and meeting the floor with his pants around his ankles.

Dean had had enough time to toss the soup and a spoon on Sammy’s bedside table and return to Castiel’s apartment to witness Castiel fall. He grinned approaching Castiel who was shirtless and struggling to get up to his knees.

Dean did so for him, grasping the man’s narrow hips and pulling until the smaller man was on his hands and knees. Dean groaned, staring at the vision of Castiel in his white underwear. He lined his hips up with Castiel’s, humping slowly. Castiel groaned along with Dean, hips rotating at the feeling.

Castiel was hard and dripping now and ready to hump the carpet. Dean moaned, “You are very sexy, Mr. Novak.”

“You’re a tease, Mr. Winchester.” Castiel moaned as Dean’s fingers danced along the edges of Castiel’s underwear. When Castiel began to pant loudly, Dean slipped underneath and pulled the underwear all the way down. He leaned forward, hips still thrusting against Castiel’s hips. His clothed dick was brushing against Castiel’s bare ass. He pressed in, listening to the catch in Castiel’s breath and proceeded to kiss each knob of Castiel’s spine.

“Let’s go to bed.” Dean whispered.

Castiel groaned, “God, yes.”

Dean lifted Castiel by his hips, attempting to keep rhythm as best as he could. Castiel was limp in Dean’s arms. He allowed the bulky man to carry him all the way to the bed, tossing him down then moving to get rid of his own clothes.

Castiel rolled over, dick hard and leaking as he watched Dean strip. Castiel purred, pleased by the sight. Dean was all muscles, large in every aspect. The bulkier man moved to straddle Castiel, fingers grazing every inch lightly. Castiel arched up into the touch, moaning when Dean pressed into his hip bones then his asshole.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean exhaled, fingers pressing deeper into Castiel. Castiel moaned, thrusting against Dean’s fingers. He kissed Castiel’s wide open thigh softly, “So beautiful.”

“Dean,” Castiel moaned, “Dean I’m ready.”

Dean grinned, “I know, stay still.”

Castiel did, feeling Dean’s fingers leave, stroking up his ass to grasp his legs. Dean moved the legs up, shuffling in between Castiel’s spread legs. He felt Dean’s hot dick against his ass and he moved his hips to bring Dean closer. The man above him leaned forward, stealing Castiel’s lips in a heated kiss as he entered Castiel.

Castiel whimpered into the kiss, the burn of entry stole his breath away but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, he loved it, felt his dick harden from it. When the pain subsided, Castiel squirmed to get the feeling back. Dean groaned above him but eventually sighed and began to thrust.

Castiel exhaled in relief, the burning feeling was back, enveloping him in intense pleasure. Dean moved slowly, gently, fingers brushing against Castiel’s nipples, hips and ass. He groaned when Dean’s fingers toyed with edges of Castiel’s hole, rubbing the stretched area.

“Dean,” Castiel moaned, “Harder.”

Dean obeyed, resting Castiel’s thighs on top of his own. Dean leaned forward, fingers finding Castiel’s and gripping them tightly. Castiel returned the grasp and groaned when loudly when Dean began to pound into him. The burning sensation was back and with Dean moaning above him, pushing into him and circling around him, Castiel felt that high that came from pure ecstasy. He screamed then, all muscles tensing, gripping every part of Dean that was possible and releasing all over his stomach, catching some on Dean. His vision went white, his body shaking from the intensity. He numbly felt Dean release inside of him then fall into him.

Castiel wrapped himself completely around Dean and fell asleep against the man’s broad chest.

Even a week later Castiel was running high on sexual bliss. He slept little but well, waking up at three in the morning now to say hello to Dean on his way in from his security job. They would share five wonderful minutes of deep kisses before Dean would sneak into his apartment and Castiel would get ready for work.

This morning was one of them. Castiel rolled out of bed just after three in the morning. The room far too dark to see. Castiel, barely dressed with just a thin white shirt and his underwear on, stormed out of the apartment, catching Dean fiddling with his keys. The man, broad shouldered and hulking frame, froze and slowly turned back to Castiel, eyes first finding Castiel’s nearly exposed morning erection and then his face. 

Dean smiled, bright and full of teeth, “Good morning.”

Castiel grinned back, “Good morning.”

Their lips found each other, a battle for dominance against Castiel’s door frame that Castiel would always lose. Dean’s hand found its way beneath Castiel’s underwear, pawing at the now throbbing erection. Castiel whimpered at the feeling, “You can come inside, Dean.”

Dean grinned against Castiel’s mouth, leather covered fingers caressing Castiel’s erection lightly, “I think I like teasing you better. Besides, you can’t go to work with a limp, can you?”

Castiel groaned, “I curse the day I let you in my life.”

Dean smiled, something slightly sad. He gently kissed the corner of Castiel’s mouth and pulled his hand away. Castiel groaned, hips thrusting, seeking the warmth again. Dean laughed to himself and kissed Castiel soundly again, “Think of me in the shower.”

Castiel did, furiously jerking, fingers fondling his hole and imaging Dean breaking into the apartment and taking him. The orgasm was powerful, Castiel drawing blood to prevent from crying out Dean’s name. He felt loopy afterwards, mind still enthralled in the image of Dean just taking and taking from him.

It stuck with him all the way to 15th NW street when he was bombarded by posters and young men shouting. On the steps of the Capitol building, nearly a foot away from the first dead body Castiel ever saw was the Freedom Fighters, throwing flyers, streamers and shouting about the injustice of the world.

“Castiel!” He heard a shout and was confronted with a smiling Anna and her blow horn, “It has been awhile. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Castiel nodded, “I was worried when you didn’t show up.”

Anna nodded, frowning, “I wasn’t allowed to see you.”

Castiel frowned, “Why?”

Anna looked around, looping her arm in Castiel’s and walking him a distance away from the crowd. He heard something about Dr. King and jail but Anna was pulling him away to quickly. When they were a safe distance she whispered into his ear, “There’s a big plan going down. Coupled with the murders, Michael felt it wasn’t safe for us to be talking to a journalist. But I promise I can do it now.”

Castiel frowned, “Why?”

She smiled brightly, “Dr. King was arrested yesterday for protesting yesterday. Now there is widespread protestors and we’re gaining support. I don’t know what is happening but Michael said we’re fine now. We have protection in numbers.”

Castiel smiled softly, “I’m glad you’re safe. We’ll set up a coffee date. I promise you’re article will be about college students and politics. I’ll keep your name out of it if you’re afraid.”

Anna grinned brightly, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

By now, Castiel was numb to bodies. Maybe because this one wasn’t as gruesome, maybe because it was a male this time. Or maybe it was the relief that Castiel wasn’t the first on the scene again. There was another reporter, an average man from a Virginia circuit, the other was an older man Castiel recognized from the Washington Times.

Castiel did the same routine, snapping a picture of the mangled body tied, now upside down, in the same fashion as the woman a month ago. He was an average white male, young with military cut blonde hair and dead blue eyes. Castiel frowned, snapping a quick picture of his mouth, forced open by ropes with jagged marks up both side of his grin. The killer had taken a knife to each side of his face, cutting at the cheeks all the way up to his ears.

Castiel idly wondered if it was before or after his death.

He interviewed Detective Singer quickly, trying not to seem to proud that he seemed less suspicious. Detective Singer didn’t mention that Castiel was the third reporter on the scene, nor did he ask where Castiel was that night, which Castiel would have responded with giving his brother a blow job, wether it was true or not. He then used his free time sharing notes with the other three reporters. 

The reporter from the Virginia Chronicle mentioned that each of the murders were killed with a special kind of knife, the only trademark between all three victims, and Castiel made a mental note to try and find those knife in the police reports. The man from the Washington Times mentioned that the identification of each person was stolen, not unknown, but the first woman, an Angela Barnes identified by her widower husband last week, was an active Democrat. As useless as the knowledge was, Castiel felt like he’d have to jot that down. Perhaps this was a political act.

What shocked Castiel the most was that none of them had seen a man in a black fedora and jacket, now with the added detail of black leather gloves. Castiel had scanned the growing crowd and found now one that matched the description of the man in Castiel’s pictures. Castiel didn’t see the mysterious man until he returned home and developed the pictures.

This time the man was holding something, a knife. He gripped it by the blade, revealing the handle as pure white. Castiel knew the dagger, the pure white that the hilt was carved from. He’d seen it before years ago, back when he was just a child in Ohio. He just needed to remember exactly why it was important and who made them.

**May 1963  
Washington DC**

Waking up in Dean’s arms was the best feeling in the world. Maybe second best because sex with Dean was beyond words and feelings. But the high of being with Dean, made the low of being without that much more hollow.

This morning was a low. Castiel still ached from the sex, rough and fast but still incredible and he wished for the comfort of cuddling to ease the ache he felt. However, he found himself alone, the side he last remembered Dean lying on was cold and there was no evidence of his presence there. Castiel had learned to accept it though it made him sad.

Castiel rolled out of bed and limped to the bathroom. He allowed the hot water to wash away the aches and he made his way to work with less of an obvious gait.

At lunch, Castiel chose a different restaurant, a sub station a block away from the office. He chose the location specifically because it stood beside a television shop. Two weeks ago, he and Anna stood right here, eating a panini and watching news reports about Dr. King’s book ‘Letters From Birmingham’. She told him about race riots, about black men getting turned down for jobs when they’re qualified, about unequal pay and beatings just because how they look.

Now Castiel stood in front of the rows of televisions, watching men running from officers with giant hoses. They were young men, beating, bleeding and hauled off to jail. Castiel frowned to himself, the hauntingly accurate words of a folk singer echoed in Castiel’s mind.

He took another bite of his sub sandwich before he felt too sick to finish. He tore off the piece he’d eaten and handed the rest to a homeless man in the alley beside the television shop.

He numbly walked the path up 15th NW, passing Anna and her troop of Freedom Fighters. They were singing this time, Michael off to the side passing small copies of Dr. King’s book to passer-bys. He smiled as Castiel passed, “Hello Mr. Novak.”

“Hello, Michael.” Castiel tilted the brim of his fedora, “I was just watching the news reports. Maybe I could get a quote or two, print it tonight for you guys.”

Michael grinned, “Absolutely.” He then turned to Anna who was watching Castiel with a soft grin. She was holding hands with a tall black man. He had scars around his eyes, knife marks most likely and he glared down at Castiel with dark eyes. Castiel shifted uncomfortably and turned to Michael, “That’s Uriel, the newest edition to our group. He came from a group of activists in Virginia. We brought him to us to show him peaceful protest, like Dr. King says.”

Castiel audibly gulped. This man was most likely a know criminal, violent against his enemies. Castiel interviewed him all the same and snapped a picture of him and Anna holding hands and singing. It was a nice segway from the murders, from sneaking into police stations for evidence bags and autopsy reports.

He had called home twice and asked his father about his personal knife collection. He tried to describe the knife he’d seen the mysterious man holding but his father was clueless. Castiel copied the photo of the man and mailed it back home with a note to find the uniqueness about the knife. All he had to do was wait.

Castiel returned home later than usual. Dean would have normally been at work by then and Castiel felt the hollow sadness at the thought that he wouldn’t get to share a kiss with Dean. He decided he would drown his sorrows in whiskey and curl up in bed. He hoped the pillow still smelled like Dean.

His plans were ruined when he found Dean, naked and erect, sitting on his kitchen counter. Castiel was instantly excited, smile wide and pants slightly tighter. He shut the front door quietly and set his camera in its place on a table by the front door.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel smiled softly, “I thought you were at work.”

“Took half the night off. Told them I wasn’t feeling good and be in later.” Dean sounded stiff and clipped, angry. Castiel neared Dean, removing his outer clothing and tie. Dean stopped his hands though. He popped Castiel’s collar, slipping the tie upwards and underneath the collar and resting it against Castiel’s neck. He then gently removed Castiel’s shirt, “I thought I would surprise you.”

Castiel hummed, “I like that.”

Dean ripped Castiel’s shirt off then angrily removed Castiel’s pants, “And now you’re home so late. Who were you with?”

Castiel frowned, “No one. I had to stay at the office and type up the interviews that I had.”

Dean’s hands found the edges of Castiel’s tie and tightened it to the point of choking Castiel. Castiel gagged, gripping Dean’s upper arms in fear, “What slut were you banging?”

“No...one...” Castiel gasped, “Promise.”

Dean glared, “Prove it to me.”

His hands found Castiel’s erection, felt around the head as it inflated. His fingers found Castiel’s balls, heavy with sperm and then found Castiel’s asshole. He prodded it, finding it tight and dry. Castiel groaned, “I can’t get it up without you, Dean.”

Dean grinned, loosening the tie but using it to pull Castiel to bed, “Damn straight.”

Dean positioned Castiel against the bed, bending him over. He took the edges of Castiel’s tie and wrapped it around his hand. He prepped Castiel quickly, watching Castiel squirm on his finger. He entered with only a little bit of lube, watching Castiel stop breathing at the breach. Castiel didn’t take long to become fully erect, hips moving against Dean.

“Only you,” Castiel muttered as Dean began to pound into him. Dean dropped the tie, wrapped his arms around Castiel and thrusted aggressively. Castiel shook beneath him, crying with every thrust until he came, Dean followed quickly. Dean turned into Castiel’s sweaty neck and bit into the meat gently, bruising the skin.

“I hurt you,” Dean pulled out and gently caressed Castiel’s hole. Castiel shuttered against the touch and leaned back into it. Dean laughed, “But clearly you like it rough.”

“I like whatever you give me, Dean.” Castiel murmured, face pressed against the cushion. Dean smiled, arms winding around Castiel again and lying them both down. 

He kissed Castiel’s forehead, “I’ll hold you to that.”

This time, Castiel wanted to throw up. He stared down at the body of Uriel, a person he knew and had met in life who was now twisted up in his own intestines and blood. Uriel’s face was slashed to pieces and his throat was cut up. His wrists were slashed to, bleeding out on the sidewalk.

There was a knife in his heart, the handle still pure white.

Castiel numbly realized that the third body found had no knife but had knife wounds. That the mysterious man had the knife in hand, this same one now embedded in Uriel’s burly chest. Castiel looked through the crowd, seeking out a black fedora and finding nothing. Perhaps the late spring heat was too much for him, perhaps he was already gone. Castiel would not know until he developed the pictures he took.

Detective Singer stepped up to Castiel, “The officers tell me you knew him.”

“Vaguely,” Castiel shrugged, “He was a protestor for the Freedom Fighters.” Detective Singer pulled out a notepad and began writing things down, “He was from a violent section in Virginia, new to the group once they started to mobilize again. Do you think this has something to do with the group of students.”

Detective Singer continued to jot down notes, silence flowing between them. He heaved a great sigh which made Castiel think he was a smoker, “Yes. The third murder, Jonathan LeStay. His older brother is a well known protestor, recently graduated and last seen organizing marches around here.”

Castiel nodded, partially curious if he knew the elder brother. It looked more and more like a political killing spree. Castiel just needed to find the mysterious man.

“That knife is something important.” Castiel nodded, “Can I take a picture of it?”

Detective singer nodded, he leaned forward, pulling a glove from his pocket and shoving it onto his right hand. He grasped at the white handle and pulled the knife out. Castiel took a picture and granted his thanks.

“What are you looking at?” Gabriel leaned over Castiel’s shoulder as the man sat at his desk. He stared at the picture of the dagger, finally noticed the carved edges of elephants along the hilt. He’d traced the patterns over and over, hoping for a clue.

“It was found with the fourth body.” Castiel sighed, “I just don’t know what that means. The hilt is special, not metal or steel like they usually are.”

Gabriel frowned, tracing the patterns himself, “It looks like ivory.”

“Ivory, like from Elephant tusks?” Gabriel nodded. His fingers traced the pattern of an elephant before freezing. He inhaled sharply and backed away from Castiel. He turned to face Gabriel, “What’s wrong?”

“I- I,” Gabriel’s eyes were wide and fearful, “I have to go.”

And he ran. Castiel shrugged it off but couldn’t help being nervous. Gabriel was never afraid, never faltered from snarky and sarcastic. To have him run out the building made Castiel wonder how deep he was in.

When Gabriel didn’t show up to work after that, Castiel was downright frightened.


	4. Chapter 4

**June 1963  
Washington DC**

Castiel wasn’t sure what he should answer first, the phone ringing or the person at his door knocking. He ran to the door, opening it wide to reveal Dean with his same lopsided grin and a silver box in his hand. Castiel smiled softly then gestured for him to come inside before running to his phone.

“Hello?” Castiel gasped.

“Castiel!” His father’s burly voice came in through the phone. He sounded excited, struck with some sort of random fact that he just couldn’t wait to share with Castiel, “I found the knife.”

Castiel frowned, forgetting for a moment what his father might be talking about, “Knife?”

“Yes!” His father exclaimed loudly, “Its the Alistair Double Edge Dagger.”

Castiel froze in shock, leaning forward on the kitchen counter and exhaling deeply. Dean was in the living room, angling his large silver box on the coffee table so Castiel could see it. He gave Castiel an odd look when he looked up to his face.

Castiel coughed, “Alistair...” Dean froze at the name but Castiel ignored it, “Alistair the senator?”

“Yes, his family owns a manufacturing company for military grad daggers. They use to be made of ivory until poaching was considered a federal crime. They switched to steal after that but that was definitely an Alistair Dagger.”

Castiel nodded numbly. Alistair was a known conservative, a senator from the state of Georgia. He had just released a very foul and aggressive speech against Dr. King, calling him a danger to normative society. If he was calling hits on local fighters promoting Dr. King’s ideals, it could be a huge scandal. Castiel could expose it all on his own and go down in history.

“Cas?” Dean was behind Castiel, hugging him tightly. The man was stiff and shaky as he wrapped hands around Castiel’s waist, “Who was that?”

“My father,” Castiel sighed, leaning back against Dean, “I think he just helped me with the serial murders.”

Dean’s arms clenched around Castiel. Castiel wanted to ask but was interrupted as Dean began to mouth Castiel’s exposed neck. Castiel moaned softly, hips bumping back into Dean’s. He whimpered pleasantly when Dean began using his teeth.

“Dean.”

Dean pulled back, wrapping a hand around Castiel’s wrist and dragging him away to the couch, “I bought you a gift.”

Castiel frowned, “Why?”

Dean kissed him again, “Because I love you.”

Castiel froze but had very little time to contemplate those words. Dean plopped the box down in his lap and gestured for Castiel to open it. Castiel did, pulling out a slim, brand new Kodak Retinette. Dean leaned in close beside him, kissing him gently, “It’s not very expensive but its better than that chunky think you carry around. And you’re pictures will be much nicer.”

Castiel pulled away, “I can’t accept this.”

Dean frowned, “Why not? It wasn’t that expensive. It’ll make your job easier.”

Castiel frowned, “No. I mean, it’s a nice gesture but I can’t give up my camera. My father gave it to me when I was 16. He bought it with the very last of his paycheck after I told him I wanted to be a journalist. I swore I’d never use another camera. So, I’m sorry. I can’t take this.”

Dean grinned brightly, “That’s why I love you.”

Castiel smiled brightly and pressed against Dean, “Thank you, Dean.”

  


The Freedom Fighters had moved to the Washington Monument, maybe for their own protection, maybe out of respect for their fallen brothers. Either way, the murders didn’t stop. The next victim Castiel didn’t know directly but Anna had. She cried into Castiel’s shoulder when they came across his body, strong up high on the fence in front of the White House, eyes missing and neck snapped around the noose. A dagger, Alistair’s dagger, stood out against his chest, still dripping blood.

Castiel took a picture, not of Balthazar, Anna’s now deceased boyfriend, but of Anna, weeping into her hands, the mysterious man standing behind her. Castiel couldn’t shake the feeling that the man, the assassin, was looking at Castiel, not Anna.

  


“Fuck!” Castiel cursed, limbs spread wide across the bed. His hips ached from the angle his legs were spread at, fingers white from their grip on the bedspread. Dean pounded into him, stealing his breath with each hard pound. Castiel loved it, loved the brutality of Dean’s thrusting, loved how his vision was black around the edges not only from the burning pleasure but from the inability to catch his breath. He was gasping, inhaling and exhaling in rapid breaths to the rhythm of Dean’s thrusts and it was perfect.

Dean was above him, face filled with pleasure and rage, fingers gripping Castiel’s knees to the point of bruising. He was babbling something but Castiel was too far gone to realize what Dean was saying. He had heard the name Anna and several curse words that made Castiel feel excited and dirty. If Castiel had half a mind to think, he’d connect this entire aggressive incident to Dean coming into the apartment and seeing Castiel display the image of a crying Anna against his board.

Dean’s hand moved from Castiel’s thigh and latched on to Castiel’s hair, pulling Castiel’s torso closer. Castiel had the opportunity to lower his leg at that point, to ease the stretching burn in his hip, but his rhythm was too hard and fast for Castiel to have the will to move his leg. Instead, the burn in his hip intensified and was joined by the ache in his spine as he was bent forward. Dean kissed him hard. Dean bit his lip and Castiel lost it. His body locked up against Dean, the pain of gripping Dean while he continued to thrust sent Castiel higher and he found himself passed out before Dean came himself.

He came to very early in the morning, wrapped up in Dean’s arms, tears soaking his neck. He groaned voice rough and deep from screaming, “Dean? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t leave me.” Dean stroked Castiel’s hair, “Don’t leave me for her. I couldn’t stand it if we had to part.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s cheek gently and wrapped him up in his arms, a soft smile on his lips.

  


Castiel couldn’t even take the picture this time. He was fortunate enough to have Detective Singer there to do it but Castiel could not bring himself to take a photo of Anna’s prone body. She was inside the garden this time, a crowd of people around her. Her body was splayed out like a cross, a singe stab wound to the heart, her hair a wild tangle around her head. The blood was different this time, long, uneven strokes that created wings across the ground. The killer had taken the blood and spread the pattern out wide.

Castiel cried that night in Dean’s arms. Dreamed about himself with the knife, looming over Anna’s body, watching her scream as he shoved the knife through her heart. 

He woke up with a heavy erection and Dean’s hands enticing it more.

**July 1963  
Washington DC**

It was the sixth murder that convinced Castiel that he not only knew the murderer but the man behind the murders. He was first on the scene, caught the sight while walking to meet Michael for an interview. Much in the way of when Anna’s body was found, Castiel recognized the face of the sixth victim instantly. Despite the face bashed into the bricks, most of the brain matter scattered against the white of the Washington Monument, Castiel could still see the serious face of Raphael. His co worker was currently mostly splattered against the building, his limps twisted in odd angles, neck punctured by the same ivory knife. 

Castiel found himself staring at the disfigured corpse a little longer. He memorized the severed skin, the trailing blood, the bent limps. The worst part was Raphael’s face, grim and serious like he had always been at the office only the eyes were vacant. Castiel idly wondered if Raphael had screamed.

Castiel had no doubt anymore that this had become personal.

He wasn’t going to sneak into public records or police files any longer. Now he was going to infiltrate the base and put a stop to the strange man Castiel has caught in every photo. 

Sneaking into Alistair’s private office was easy. He bribed the secretary and waited for Alistair to appear public for one of his many anti- Martin Luther King jr. Speeches. As Michael had told Castiel a week before, Dr. King was in town to protest and Alistair was a key person Dr. King was protesting against. Castiel just had to wait for the time for Alistair to rebuttal.

The television in the main office room rang with Alistair’s slimy words of Dr. King and the danger he brought to the middle class. He spewed hate speech about the every growing job market and how discrimination was a way of protecting the average white man in his job. Castiel eventually had to mute out the words so he could concentrate. He just needed on lead, one little connection.

He pulled books filled with bank records that included some of the other senators and even Zachariah on the payroll. He snapped a picture of it quickly and placed it back on the shelf as if it had never been moved. The next was a folder filled with news articles about Dr. King. There were sections highlighted, mostly things of what Dr. King had said in previous speeches about equal rights. Castiel sincerely wanted to pocket the information and use it as evidence. Instead he jotted down key notes Alistair had written in the open spaces and gently pushed the folder back in its place.

There was a muffled noise from beyond Alistair’s doorway, feet shuffling against the carpet. Castiel froze in his place, unmoving and refusing to breath until the feet passed. He could see the shadows pass by the door, freeze beside the door and jiggle at the handle. Castiel felt his heart beat loudly in his ear, blood rush through his head.

Suddenly the form moved from the door handle, the audible sound of a lock clicking into place. Castiel was locked in Alistair’s office. He waited for the body, possibly the janitor, to move on. Once the shadow left, Castiel scrambled through the rest of the documents on the bookshelf. Nothing was obviously connecting Alistair with the crimes or even the mysterious man. 

Castiel sighed heavily and moved over to Alistair’s desk. He eased into the large leather chair, the back drop was a wide bay window with a panoramic scene of the park. Castiel could see the pink edges of the blossomed cherry trees. He turned to the desk, a standard cherry wood with a leather mat across the top, a nice looking type writer place directly in the center, a pen holder and a single lamp. 

Castiel jiggled the drawers on each side of the desk. He found more accounting books, nothing that held dark secrets. There was a manuscript in the second drawer to the left, a published one to the right, both written by Alistair about himself. The third drawer to the left held blank note pads and extra pencils but the third drawer on the right was locked. Castiel yanked at it roughly but the draw wouldn’t budge.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair and scanning the room for a key. There was nothing present and Castiel felt a headache coming on. He placed his elbows on the leather mat and leaned his forehead into his open palms, a familiar gesture when he was frustrated. He sighed, rubbing his temple. When he opened his eyes, he noticed the mat bent between his elbows, a bubble forming in the center. The type writer shifted slightly too, as if it was balanced on a very small object.

Castiel bit his lip and gently, quietly lifted the leather mat and type writer. Hidden underneath was a small key, an old iron cast key tied to a string. He pulled the key quickly, realizing an old brass ring came with it. He gently placed the mat down again and moved to the drawer. When the lock clicked, the draw slid open easily, revealing papers and files in all colors inside.

Castiel pulled the top one, a bright flyer with Dr. King’s face on it. Bold letters that stated Freedom and Justice for all circled the top. Castiel knew this flyer instantly, the same one that Anna had first handed to him all those months ago.

Beneath the flyer were more of them, crinkled and torn, some with angry words written across the papers. Castiel pushed the papers aside to reveal folded up sheets of notebook paper. He pulled one, Alistair’s name written in pink crayon on the top, and unfolded it to reveal an angry message in Anna’s writing. There was another below it, same handwriting with another message. When Castiel shuffled through the papers he realized that every piece of paper was a hate message to Alistair, some even threatening. They were all from the freedom fighters, each message telling Alistair that he was evil for allowing the riots to continue. 

Castiel took each flyer and spread it out on the desk. He took one picture, refilled the camera in the darkness underneath the desk then snapped another picture. He thought about stealing flyers, even gripped the handwritten note from Anna tightly, but he knew better. He was already too close to discovery, he just had to take the pictures and run. 

He pulled a few more flyers and letters, displaying Alistair and the Freedom Fighter’s names boldly with a few of the hate messages from both sides. Shuffling through for the right letters, he came upon a simple manilla folder. He pulled it, looking at a group of bank records from two different accounts. The first was on bank record, every first of the month money was deposited into the account, listed as cash. Then, at random dates and random times once a month, a massive lump sum would be pulled and, if Castiel matched them up correctly, they would be posted to the second account, one that had no withdrawals.

Castiel couldn’t let these records go. He had to know who owned both and why Alistair had them in his desk. Castiel shuffled them back into the folder and tucked it away in his suit jacket.

That’s when he heard it again. There was a rustle of feet, more than one, and voices speaking to each other. Castiel scrambled to put everything back, throwing the flyers and hate mail back into the desk, covering up the blank space where the records had been. 

He locked the drawer and shoved the key up and under the leather mat and type writer. The voices were at the door so Castiel had to take the window.

He slid the panel opened, stepped through, and closed it behind him. He inched across the narrow balcony before reaching the next window, opened to let in the July heat. Castiel tumbled through, finding him in Azazel Mona’s office. Azazel was fortunately out for the day but his assistant was not.

The man, a sandy haired, blue eyed thirty year old was hunched over Azazel’s desk, snoring across the desk. Underneath him was a ton of copies of Castiel’s photo from several months ago, the group photo that Zachariah had not let Castiel run. A different face was crossed out with each separate photo. Hidden among the group photos were individuals once, Balthazar smoking outside the Library of Congress, Raphael at work. 

When Castiel pulled aside a group photo that had Anna’s face crossed out in red marker, he found a picture of Gabriel and himself at a baseball game in Ohio. Gabriel had admitted to being a huge fan of the Cleveland Indians and bought box tickets to the game. He took Castiel with him despite Castiel being new to the office and spent most of his time crying about missing his father in Kent, Ohio. The game had been over a year ago.

There was the sound of shouting from Alistair’s office and though Castiel had wanted to take the picture of himself and Gabriel, he couldn’t leave any more traces of himself behind. He dropped Anna’s photo and left the office, throwing the door opened and running down the empty hallway until he reached an emergency stairwell and hid inside the doors. He wanted to cry or scream or return and slit Alistair’s throat because Alistair killed the Freedom Fighters and he was going after Gabriel next.

Instead, Castiel waited for an hour and calmly walked out of the emergency stairwell. He walked all the way back to the Winchester apartment and knocked, hoping Dean was home alone. Dean wasn’t home at all, just Sam and the two drank and talked about Sam’s application to Stanford Law School.

  


Castiel went to the Washington National Bank the next day, looking over his back for any signs of Alistair or the dark man in the hat. He showed the first bank records to the teller asking who had opened up the accounts. The man smiled thoughtfully, taking the paper and retreating to the back of the bank. He emerged after a few minutes with a piece of paper, “Normally this is confidential but I know your face, Mr. Novak. You’re the reporting that keeps taking photos of those college students. Is this for the case?”

Castiel nodded, “Detective Singer sent me for this part so we don’t raise any alarms.”

The teller grinned brightly, “I promise I won’t say a word. This account is registered to a Luc Smith but the Senator Lucifer Flavius was the last man to deposit funds into the account.”

Castiel’s eyes brightened. Lucifer Flavius was the Senator from South Caroline, best friend and drinking buddy to Senator Azazel Mona. Castiel had a real, genuinely scandalous article going, “The last man? Meaning others have come.”

The teller nodded and passed Castiel a note, “All the names here. They’ve also been the ones to take out funds.”

Castiel retrieved the second account records, “To this account? Who has this account?”

The teller grinned, “Registered to a Samuel Campbell.”

Castiel frowned but took down the name all the same. He took the note and the records and retreated to his apartment. He lined up every day there was a deposited into Luce Smith’s account to all the funds posted to Samuel Campbell’s accounts. The days matched up and each person was either the direct assistant of each of the three men or the three Senator’s themselves. Castiel just had to track down who Samuel Campbell was and he’d have the biggest scoop the Washington Post had ever reported.

**August 1963  
Washington DC**

Sam pounded on the door loudly, startling Castiel to his feet, tossing Dean from the bed. Castiel approached in just his underwear, limping slightly from the round of sex they’d had an hour ago. Castiel loved the feeling almost as much as the actual pounding. But he shook the thoughts aside, allowing Sam to enter the room.

“I got in!” Sam grinned, “I’m going to Stanford law.”

Castiel smiled softly. Dean came up behind Sam, laughing brightly and twirling the taller boy around, “Congrats, Sammy.”

“Ew!” Sam laughed and pushed Dean away, “You smell like sex!”

“You said you were okay with us.” Dean pouted, taking Castiel’s hand.

“I am but please don’t touch me after you guys have had sex.” Sammy laughed, “The best part is that I got the scholarship! I don’t have to pay any tuition! And my room and board will be free after I get the teacher’s aid position. So we need to go out to dinner to celebrate.”

Sam grinned, hugging both of them and then retreated back to the apartment. Castiel smiled brightly, kissing Dean on the cheek and moving to the bedroom to change clothes. Dean, however stayed in place, watching Castiel go. He held the same horror-shock expression and his eyes found the now familiar pictures of the darkened man on Castiel’s cork board. The image of Anna had been taken down, replaced with the images of Raphael and Uriel’s bodies.

“Dean?” Castiel called from the closet, “Are you going to join me in here or do I have to celebrate with myself?”

Dean shook himself and followed Castiel into the closet.

  


“Dr. King plans this big march on Washington.” Michael grins, one arm wrapped around Castiel’s as they walked to a local pub late one night, “He wants me to head it up and then stand beside him. I read his speech. It’s going to be so amazing.”

Castiel remained quiet, allowing Michael to drag him through alleyways, “It doesn’t matter was Senator Alistair or Mona or Flavius say. Dr. King is going to change the world!”

Castiel sighed, “I saw the threatening notes Michael. Don’t you blame yourself for what happened.”

Michael frowned, “I’m a target no matter what I do, Castiel. I have black friends and I believe everyone has the right to the American Dream. Whether I sent angry words to a few politicians or not, I’m dead.”

Castiel smiled softly, “Do you wonder what its like for them?”

“For Anna and everyone?” Michael shrugged, “Of Course.”

“I mean for the murder?” Castiel squeaked awkwardly as they fell off the main lighted path and cut through an alleyway to get to 15th St, “Like, what it was like for him to torture and kill them.”

Michael stopped, giving Castiel an odd look, “You’re not suppose to sympathize with the killer, Mr. Novak.”

“I-I’m not!” Castiel sputtered but then he was covered in blood, a sharp piece of metal protruding from Michael’s jugular. The tip of the knife jiggled a little, blood spurting as Michael tried and failed to breath around it. The knife cut sideways and Michael gurgled, eyes bulging out. Suddenly they were blank and he stopped squirming on the tip of the dagger.

The metal piece was yanked from Michael’s neck and his body crumpled to the ground. Castiel saw a flash of a face in the dark, a strong jaw that was familiar, a deep black fedora covering wide green eyes. Castiel paused in his thought, trying to pinpoint the feeling that told him the man had green eyes. 

Before Castiel could focus, his fingers slipped on his camera trigger, snapping what would definitely be a blurry picture of the killer’s face. This startled not only the serial killer, who then ran, but Castiel who felt himself begin to scream for police.

Hours later, Castiel still couldn’t describe the killer’s face. He developed the picture alone in his own dark room but still could not image the person that owned that face. It was hauntingly familiar, the identity scratching at the back of his mind but Castiel could still not pin point the man. He pinned the picture to his cork board and waited for Dean to come to the apartment.

He fell asleep alone.

  


Castiel and Sam were packing up Sam’s clothing when he stumbled upon a worn photo album. Sam laughed, flipping the cover over to reveal a baby picture of Dean. The same Dean with the bright green eyes that Castiel hadn’t seen in two weeks. Castiel missed Dean.

“This is my Mom and Dad,” Sam pointed to a petit blonde woman and a rustic looking man standing in front of the cherry blossom trees in the park, the same ones that Castiel had always wanted to see. Sam pointed to the woman, “Mary Campbell Winchester and John Winchester.”

“Campbell?” Castiel asked.

Sam nodded, “Yeah, they were a farm family in Kansas. My Dad was raised there but got a military job here in D.C. Mom wanted us raised in Kansas and for awhile she wasn’t going to marry my father because he wanted to come here. Then some crazy guy came in and killed my grandparents,” Sam flipped the picture to reveal and aged man and woman, both eerily similar to Mary Campbell Winchester in looks, “Samuel and Deanna Campbell. Dean and I are named after them.”  
“Samuel Campbell?” Castiel gasped, shock sending a cold chill down his neck.

Sam grinned, “Yeah, stupid I know. I didn’t want to be called Samuel so I went by Sam.”

Castiel stood panic. All the facts hit him all at once. The money was a college fund for Sam. Alistair was paying Dean to kill the Freedom Fighters, to kill the people who were bringing about change. And Dean was doing it to get Sam through Stanford.

“Castiel?” Sam called but it seemed so far away, Castiel’s thoughts screaming in his head. He ran back to his apartment, straight to the photo. He didn’t recognize the fedora, it wasn’t a hate he’d ever seen Dean wear but that was Dean’s jawline, his high cheek bones, his scruffy face. And just above the white collar was a hickey that Castiel had given him.

Castiel had to be next on the list, it had to be the reason Dean got so close. Castiel had to get Dean out of town as fast as he could, before Dean returned home. Sam was too good of a soul to see his brother murder.

“Castiel?” Sam frowned from Castiel’s doorway, “Are you okay?”

Castiel turning around, wiping the tears from his eyes, “Yeah, I just miss Dean.”

Sam smiled softly, “He probably is having a hard time saying goodbye. He’ll be at the station tonight I bet.”

Tonight, Castiel had until 10 o’clock tonight. He rushed back into Sam’s room and begin packing quickly, “We’ll have to leave early and beat the crowds. I heard Dr. King is having a march on Washington today.

  


Dean did not come to the station that night. Castiel could see the disappointment on Sam’s face as the train pulled away. They had heard Dr. King make a grand speech, one that would be infamous. Castiel was sad that no one was there to hear it. Maybe Gabriel was, maybe he was in France, as far away from the dark secrets as he could get.

Castiel had never felt so alone in his life.

He returned to his apartment, so depressed he couldn’t eat. Instead he stripped all the way down to the nude and laid across the bed. He fell asleep staring at the picture of Dean on the wall.

  


He woke up to Dean hovering him, drenched in blood and tears. Castiel watched him closely, finding the bright green eyes wide and feral, “Dean?”

“I did it for you, Cas.” Dean whispered softly, bloody hands following a trail from Castiel’s prone fingertips up his arm, “They wanted me to kill you. They said you knew too much, could bring us all down and they’d take Sammy’s money.” His fingers found Castiel’s collar bone and chest, “I couldn’t let them take Sammy’s money. He deserves it all. But I couldn’t kill you for money. I love you too much.”

Castiel felt tears prickle his eyes, “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean’s wild green eyes found his own. His hands moved up around Castiel’s shoulders, finding Castiel’s jugular, “No, you can’t love me. If you love me, you’ll die.”

Castiel’s hands found Dean’s, feeling as they wrapped around Castiel’s neck, “I’d be happy to die for you Dean. I can die by your hands. I just have two requests.”

“What?” Dean sniffled.

“One is that you fuck me one last time,” Castiel whispered, “The other is that you be happy.”

Dean sniffled loudly and moved off Castiel, “You can’t ask me to do this.”

“You can’t abandon Sammy.” Castiel whispered. Dean paced the room and Castiel numbly realized Dean was stripping as he did so, “Sammy is more important, the most important.”

Dean turned to Castiel, “I love you. I love you so much that I stabbed Lucifer in the throat when he said he’d come over here and rape you. He said he’d teach you a lesson and I just stabbed him. Right in front of Azazel and Alistair!”

Castiel took Dean’s hands and guided him to sit. He finished removing Castiel’s shirt then kneeled, taking Dean’s pants, socks, shoes and finally underwear off. He kissed Dean softly at the neck, tasting the blood, Lucifer’s blood.

“You can kill me, Dean.” Castiel whispered, fingers stroking along Dean’s thighs, “Sammy needs the money, you need the money.”

Dean’s fingers found Castiel’s ass, teasing and preparing him. Castiel hummed in pleasure and moving into Dean’s lap. Dean cried harder, “They have this place wired, they said if I don’t kill you, they will. I can’t kill you, Cas.”

“They’ll kill you if you don’t,” Castiel kissed Dean’s forehead and took his dick in his hands. He guided Dean’s cock to his ass and gently pushed down, revealing in the burn of penetration, the feeling of Dean being so deep he could have been touching Castiel’s throat. Castiel gasped, “You need to be alive for Sammy.”

Dean gasped at the tight heat around him. His hands found Castiel’s neck, watching Castiel shudder then begin to move in Castiel’s lap. Dean took hold of Castiel’s neck, fingers stroking along the jugular again before squeeze. Castiel’s cock jumped and he rode Dean a little harder.

Dean squeeze more, feeling Castiel’s throat begin to collapse under the pressure, Castiel’s lungs attempting to gather in air but shriveled from the lack of oxygen. Castiel was riding him harder, faster, each decent causing him to exhale with a whine. Castiel’s vision began to darken around the edges and the burning heat in his stomach intensified.

“I love you,” Castiel gasped, releasing hotly in the minimal space between them. He clamped down tightly on Dean as the man began to thrust upwards into Castiel. 

Dean cried, tears falling down to the puddle forming between them. Castiel continued to move up and down, cock still hard and throbbing, “Come with me. Come with me and work for them. That’ll fix everything.”

“You kill this last time,” Castiel gasped, “And then you stop. Go to California and be happy.”

“Not without you.” Dean cried, fingers squeezing. Castiel was still riding Dean, feeling another orgasm coming rapidly, “I need you.”

Castiel wrapped his hands around Dean’s, “You’ll always have me.”

They shifted, Castiel thrown back to the bed, legs splayed wide. Dean hovered over Castiel, using the angle and his body weight to tighten his hold on Castiel. He pounded into Castiel, sharp, hard thrusts that shook Castiel inside and out.

“You’ll come with me. You’ll kill for me.” Dean screamed, thrusting wildly into Castiel. The man beneath him screamed in pleasure, “And we’ll be together forever.”

Castiel gasped, “Together, forever.”

He suddenly let go, watching Castiel’s chest expand rapidly. The air rushed down Castiel’s lung, his chest expanding and the pulsing of blood rushing through him causing to come again. He screamed this time, both in pain and pleasure as he gasped for air. Dean came with him, hugging Castiel tightly.

Castiel shuddered in his grasp, crying and holding Dean tightly. Dean cried as well, body wrung out from the orgasm. Dean turned to kiss the bruises around Castiel’s throat, “It’ll be perfect. Just like the movies.”

Castiel laughed weakly, his voice completely ruined from the sex, “They don’t do that in the movies.”

They hugged each other tightly, kissing softly. They’d drain the bank accounts in the morning, take what little Castiel had and run. But for now, they’d lie in each others arms and enjoy this freedom.

Castiel kissed Dean rightly on the lips just as an audible click resounded through the parking lot. The feeling of heat was first, then it was the fire, then it was the sound of the building crumbling from the explosion. Lastly it was the screams of survivors as the apartment complex burned to the ground.

  


It was a bright morning when the public found Senator Alistair strung up to the fence of the Lincoln Memorial, tied to the pedestal that Martin Luther King, jr had made his speech the day before. He neck was nearly severed, his eyes gouged out and placed in his hand. His stomach was slit but his buttoned shirt had covered that until he was moved. His feet were missing, found at the edge of the reflection pool an hour later.

Detective Singer wanted to throw up, especially when, stuffed deep down Alistair’s throat, was another man’s penis. It wasn’t Alistair’s because his was still attached beneath his pants. So there was another victim somewhere and, knowing his fair share of politics, he could only imagine that it was Senator Azazel. 

Beneath the sickness that was Senator Alistair’s body was a picture, black and white and red from the blood. When Detective Singer picked up the photo he recognized the photographer instantly. The simplicity of the photo, the focus on the right object, the thing that would was suppose to grab your attention, was perfectly placed despite the poor quality of the picture.

The focus was the row of cherry blossom trees in Washington Park. The top of the monument was seen over the heads of the trees. There was the 300 year old lantern from Japan close to the foreground of the picture. Detective Singer could see a hand, missing its fingers, just close enough to the edge of the picture. The background was a blurry picture, a man in a long black coat and black fedora. His face was hidden but an ivory handled knife was gripped tightly in his hand.

Detective Singer sent a few teams to the park but he knew he it would be too late to catch the killers. He also knew, he’d never see that clever photographer Mr. Novak again.

At least, he hoped not.

**End**

  


**Author's Note:**

> A wonderful thank you to annachuu on lj and tumblr for the wonderful art and inspiration. I hope everyone enjoys the fic :)


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